


To See You As I Do

by Arnediad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Basically just Fingon thinking about Maedhros some light frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: Fingon reflects upon the fact that no one knows Maedhros the way he does.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	To See You As I Do

They never saw him as he did. 

Shifting his robe over one shoulder, rising from the sheets somewhat to attempt to ascertain the time, the King of the Noldor squinted in the dim light of the vast...lavish room and tried to pretend he felt as if he belonged there. There were days...and nights...when simply bringing himself across the threshold made him feel a fraud. Lying abed, staring at whatever gilded ceiling his host or his people felt suited him best, Findekáno found he could not sleep what with how soft the coverlet was...how properly placed and overtly elegant his ‘possessions’ had suddenly become. 

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t known it was coming...but he hadn’t known that it would come so _soon_ ; had not known that his sire would perish so soon and so violently. There were times when he entertained the fanatic and truly mad train of thought that someday, he would be taking a bath and Fëanor would come charging through the doors and lop off his head. He’d have put that blasted crown on the towels beside the pool, and the son of Finwë would put it atop _his_ head and rail at his decapitated body in regards to his ‘usurpation’ and then proceed to burn down half the kingdom. 

The progeny of said madman lay abed next to him...not often, but when they could spare the time, and so he told himself that such hysterical delusions were not so far off the mark as they otherwise might be. Maedhros’ hair was-of course-a rather blatant opposition to his sire...but it didn’t change the shared fire in their spirits...or that ever-teetering, somewhat reeling sensation of possible unhingement that followed both of them wherever they went. Maitimo was _loud_ when he entered a room, and he didn’t have to open his mouth to be sufficiently cacophonous. It was in his bearing, in his way of movement, in the way that running into him felt rather like running into a herd of Balrogs on their way to a fire festival. 

Maedhros was made to be a King even if it was entirely by accident.

And if one ever got to sitting down with Maedhros and actually talking to him one would realize that first impressions were horribly deceptive. Because Maedhros was charismatic but he had no idea of it and he was clever but he had no idea that he was clever. Findekáno often despaired of the fact that half their plans never came to fruition because his husband-in flesh and not word...making it word would be making it scandal-didn’t have an ounce of self esteem. The subject of his ruminations snorted in his sleep and then groaned as if somehow the older elf’s thoughts had personally offended him straight through the veils of somnolence. 

Fingon resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. 

Maitimo could play at confidence like Makalaurë could play a harp; very well, but hating himself the whole time he did it with a great and terrible misery that seemed to only come from a gargantuan urge to self-destruct. In Valinor, his redheaded friend could make a group of elleth swoon and then turn ‘round and go home to his mother’s and drink himself to ruins because he’d stumbled over some _’thee’_ or _’thou’._ Fingon had wanted to drink himself to ruins during such times as well, for entirely different reasons, but it did not change the fact that Maedhros was not ever under the impression that he was operating to the height of complete success and thusly-illogically-was a complete and utter failure. He sometimes wondered if that was why he had a mean streak the size of Arda; because he could not, without any great measure of delusion or drunkenness, bring himself to like himself even the slightest bit. 

Chewing on his lip, Fingon silently considered the fact that swearing Oaths in regards to doomed shiny rocks probably did not do one’s self esteem any great favors once one gained some perspective. Hanging starved and tortured from a mountain and then losing one’s hand likely did not shift things in a positive direction either. He was not ignorant to his lover’s extensive plight; nor did he fail to sympathize with it...but there were days when he wanted to spar Maedhros into submission simply for being _Maedhros._

There was, for example, a time when the redheaded Fëanorian was visiting and a delegation had arrived from Gondolin. Fingon had been tied up with one of his very few and very cantankerous treasurers trying to reach and agreement regarding citizen tax. He had _begged_ Maitimo to greet them in his stead as a familial representative. _Maitimo_ , who up until that point had been doing nothing but sitting in a corner whittling, chatting with an also-visiting Aradhel in regards to running Himring, and occasionally scratching his belly just to see Fingon glare at him, proceeded to declare he knew nothing about greeting delegations before running off. 

He did this only to come back hours later to ply the now-situated delegates with wine and talk of trade and diplomacy that would have made Fingon green with envy if he hadn't been red with exasperation. To anyone else this might have seemed the height of spousal disagreement, especially when one’s spouse was a monarch, but it wasn’t. It _wasn’t_ because Maedhros would come weaving up to said monarch’s chambers later that night and kiss his way into Fingon’s bed like nothing was amiss...and to him...it wasn’t. Maitimo did not know that what he was doing was diplomacy...not really. 

Maedhros did not know his own worth and would not have known it if it was standing before him wearing all three Silmarils. 

Fingon had once questioned him in regards to the management of Himring, and why he did not consider that in any way political. With the elevation of a fiery eyebrow, it was declared to him that Himring was a _’duty’_ and that while said manager of Himring was proud of his station he was _’merely doing what he had to do to’_ and _’if he did it successfully then that was very well but sometimes he was rather shocked that the entire fortress hadn’t come down ‘round his ears.’_ Fingon had wanted, at that point, to point out that the younger individual’s upbringing was circulant to the prospect of rule, but Maitimo never seemed to really register that. He was unsure if it was because of Thangorodrim or if the son of Fëanor truly didn’t care for it. 

Fingon didn’t care for rule much himself. 

It was an unspoken thing between them; the very real contrast between who was ruling and who might have ruled. They’d discussed it before, of course, when Maedhros was recovering, but other than that it went mostly undiscussed due to the fact that neither one of them had really ever wanted to throne. The day his _Atar_ died Fingon was not entirely sure that he could manage any of it. Sitting alone in a dark room...thinking of nothing but death and war...he was rather certain that under his hand his father’s rule would fail...that he would leave his legacy-however short and unexpected-with nothing at all. 

_’I am sorry.’_

He’d received the letter not too many days after the funeral. It had taken him a long time to open it...because he was, at the time, a little bit angry at his redheaded lover for-however unintentionally-foisting such a thing upon him. Not in the sense of blame...but in the sense that he truly, _truly_ did not want this. That was all the letter said, however...without a signature or a date...but he’d known Maitimo’s handwriting for hundreds of years...there was no way he could mistake it for someone else...and he’d understood. Even as he wept over a three-letter missive, he understood and he had ached for him...for both of them...for all of their people both alive and those who had passed on. 

Loving Maedhros was like loving a tempest. 

As different as he was from his sire...they were not so different at the core of everything. Sometimes Fingon saw a little bit of it...that mad fire that had so possessed his Uncle. It was there...underneath everything. It was in the way Maedhros would sometimes laugh until he was nearly ill or until he _was_ ill...in the way his fingers twitched when he thought Fingon wasn’t looking...eternally grasping for something he was uncertain they would ever possess. Findekáno was not ignorant to the fact that the Oath had driven something sick and fanatic into him that would never let him go. 

Neither was he blind to the reality that such an Oath would eventually drive his companion to desperate, heretic acts such as the Kinslaying once had. There was a thirst in him for destruction now...something that came from murdering one’s own that no light could fully drive away. It beat on the doors to his psyche like some monstrous...hulking beast...slavered in his footsteps until he could bear it no longer. There were times when the whispers from Thangorodrim became more of a howl and Fingon would be looking into empty wells for eyes as he tried to shield himself from the vitriol that dripped from a snarling, feelingless mouth. Maitimo was an obsession contained...a hereditary brilliance overshadowed by the mammoth phantasms of his wrongdoings. That did not, of course, mean that Fingon could not relate to that hunger; he had, after all, participated in the Kinslayings...however unwittingly. 

It also did not mean he could simply _stop loving_ Maedhros. 

“‘Káno…”

Maedhros’ voice was thick and heavy with sleep even as he shifted beside him...as the redhead’s good arm came up so his fingers could grasp Fingon’s hip...the whole of him rotating so that the length of him was stretched out beside the length of his lover. Fingon’s breath hitched as he did this, though not in desire...more in surprise; he’d not realized the depth of his preoccupation until that moment. Looking downwards...his braid falling over one shoulder, he was privy to the sight of steely grey irises peeking out at him from beneath scarlet lashes. Those sharp...hard features were lax with the remnants of unconsciousness...so rarely did he ever see him so anymore. 

No one was privy to this Maedhros anymore...save for him. 

Even then...it was a fleeting thing, always unintentional...and always terribly nostalgic. The redhead was insistent that some vital part of him had died...or been left behind...but Fingon was more prone to think that he’d simply shoved it down...deep inside of himself...so he couldn’t feel the pain of everything that had befallen him. And he _knew_ it wasn’t dead because he was looking at it...under the scars...under the lack of a hand...under the jerkiness and awkwardness...the brazen impulsiveness....the terrible cruelty...Nelyafinwë was there. 

He was there when he managed Himring with such determined and yet terribly honest dedication. He was there when he rode out to meet Fingon when he came to visit...sometimes for many leagues; it was in the gentleness in his eyes as he dismounted so he could embrace him in solitude…so they could greet each other as a couple might before riding back together...though at an easy pace. Moreso was it there in the firelight...in the quiet moments; when he was languid after they had had their fill of each other and was sitting next to the hearth with his hair spilling down his shoulders...his lips flush from kissing and every limb suffused with an easy languor. 

Very few would think the firstborn son of Fëanor could be kind...or maybe they would think he had lost his kindness in the Oath...and if not in that then certainly in the Kinslaying. Fingon’s memory was long...and so he would agree that there was likely a time when his love had been _kinder_ , but that didn’t mean that he failed to be kind in the present. He was inclined to believe that Maedhros was ‘oft oblivious to his callousness, or that perhaps he hid behind it because he felt that there was no other alternative. He was, however, rather convinced that his redheaded companion was unintentionally crass, because his reactions to others’ reactions to _his_ reactions was usually something wrought in surprise or indignation. 

“Go back to sleep” Findekáno murmured, stroking a hand through scarlet tresses. 

Lashes of a similar color fluttered as he did so, but those stormy eyes remained affixed to him. 

“You’re thinking so loud I can hardly sleep Finno” was the rough response. 

Almost involuntarily, the King of the Noldor felt the right corner of his lip twitch in fond amusement. 

“I’m surprised you could hear it over the sound of your snoring” he remarked, letting his smirk widen. After a moment of silence, he continued. “I was thinking of you.” 

The smugness was immediately apparent. 

Even as that familiar, sometimes terribly annoying semblance of swagger settled across beloved features, Fingon acknowledged that this too was a front. Behind the egotism was a deep, roiling well of uncertainty...of apprehension. It was in storm-colored irises...in the way that they seemed to boil beneath his gaze, like snatching at shadow. A tongue darted out to wet dry lips and he followed the movement unconsciously, lifted his hand to let his forefinger trace the path it had taken idly...with the kind of interest that can only come from years of togetherness. 

“Oh?” was the purred response even as Maitimo rose...as he nudged at Fingon with his good arm until the older elf willingly rolled so that he was atop him...between spread thighs and propped on his elbows whilst his companion lay back again. Lithe hips rolled suggestively, as a mouth sought his...captured him somewhere between and the kiss that followed was slow and deep. “What were you thinking of?” was the ragged response when they broke for air. “Of my skill with the _sword_...perhaps?” 

Gentle. 

Maedhros could be gentle...when he wanted to be...even if he was trying to hide it all the while. Even now he was gentled; it was apparent in the way he studied Fingon’s features...in the soft rise and fall of his chest as they lay for a while in silence; the stars turning above them...unseen. It was apparent in the way the fingers of his remaining hand grasped his waist...in the way they stroked covetously, sometimes grasping at his skin...as if perhaps he could write love atop epidermis without speaking it aloud. So too was it in the stark truth that Maedhros was unarmed...that even in Himring his sword would not be far from the bed...but here it was not. Here it was resting with Fingon’s next to the hearth...the scabbard glimmering faintly in the light from nearly-cold coals. 

Foregoing reply for the time being, Findekáno dipped his head to capture those lips again and shivered silently as Maedhros inhaled in a sharp, almost jerky motion. The fingers at his waist came up to card through what little hair had come loose from his braid in sleep as their mouths met...as long legs came up to cradle him more fully. Maitimo arched in long, slow, suggestive movement and Fingon nearly forgot himself as he did so...as he felt the half-hard jut of an erection against his abdomen while his lover rocked unconsciously into him before settling once more. The atmosphere had become heady between them, and he knew that if he did not answer soon then they would simply forget it...lose themselves in one another as they were wont to do. 

“I was thinking” the King of the Noldor panted against parted vermillion. “That no one sees you as I do.” 

Maedhros stilled and made a study of him...uncharacteristically serious and yet somehow managing to look younger and more vulnerable than he had in centuries. His hair was aflame across the pillows and Fingon wanted to kiss every freckle on his nose...wanted to hold him forever...but somehow, he knew...even if only for an instant, that that was not to be. And as a playful but gentle smile spread itself across that familiar face his heart ached. Because he did not _want_ this to end...but it would...one way or another...all things that came to them ended. He wanted to curse...wanted to rage at the unfairness of it because surely, _surely_ he could just have this. But this was not some little thing...this was Maedhros...son of Fëanor ...and the sons of Fëanor were doomed to lose all that they loved...and so he wept inside even as _his_ love...his all...his whole existence smiled. He tilted his head up to kiss him again and he was helpless to refuse because he had never been able to refuse him anything at all. 

“Well” Maedhros said gruffly. “Thank the Valar for that.”

**Author's Note:**

> .I'd ask you be patient with me. Because this was awful. But we've got Finno and Maedhros to make us smile in the meantime.  
> 


End file.
